


Walk into a Tavern

by EtiquetteIsOverrated



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 04:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13286874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtiquetteIsOverrated/pseuds/EtiquetteIsOverrated
Summary: Two dwarves, two elves, four humans, and a dog walk into a tavern in Lothering. Things quickly deteriorate from there.





	1. Natia

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all. I'm a new writer, and I'm trying to improve my craft. As such, if you notice anything grammatically wrong with this story, if the "humor" didn't quite land, or if any of the sentences feel jarring, don't hesitate to let me know. I will be very appreciative. Also, if you simply didn't like it, indicate that to me as well, though it would be most helpful if you can convey why you didn't like it, apart from the general lack of style that is prevalent throughout. Thank you in advance for your time. As this is a multi-chapter fic, it may take several chapters for story to reach the situation described in the summary. Just telling the readers up front. Enjoy as best you can.

Natia Brosca didn't believe in luck, or rather, didn't believe in luck that applied to her. To be fair, the luckiest thing to happen in her life so far was when Beraht's guard had dropped just enough for her dagger to find his throat. Nothing like the feeling of blood washing over one's gloved hand to make someone feel fortunate. Natia didn't exactly have time to ponder her supposed change in fortune, however, as she and Leske had booked it outta there, dashing through the passageway to the carta's front shop.

Of course, if there was such a thing as luck, then Natia had to admit, she was certainly due for some by this point. Let's see, born a duster in Orzammar? Check. Father running out on you as a child, and mother becoming an abusive drunk? Affirmative. Selling yourself to a crime lord while your sister whores herself out, all so you can continue living your already sad existence? Don't you know it. And finally, having the warrior you are currently impersonating walk into the proving arena when he had been off in an alcohol induced dream land not an hour earlier? Natia Brosca, reporting for duty! Oh, and then there was waking up in your former employer's cell. That wasn't fun.

Point being, that although Natia humored her older sister's surprising naivete, her assertions that Natia could make something of herself and the like, she had learned long ago not to expect anything good to come her way, ever.

That's why it was somewhat difficult to comprehend what was happening as the human Grey Warden, Duncan, led her away from the crowd that surrounded Beraht's front shop, a crowd that included her sister, Rica, smiling at her and wiping what was surely not a tear from her eye, her best friend, Leske, who was taking this chance to bolt as stealthily as possible around the corner, and a number of Orzammar guards who glowered after her, looking as though they would give anything to ignore the right of conscription.

Duncan's hand was firm on Natia's shoulder as they walked toward the massive doorway to Orzammar's entrance hall. At first, Natia thought it was because he was afraid she might bolt, which made her wonder how comfortable Duncan really was accepting a casteless into the Grey Wardens. But as they passed more guards, who all turned to stare at the pair of them with varying expressions of shock and rage, Natia got the impression that the hand was more of a deterrent for potential accostants than Natia herself; a realization that she was unsure how to feel about.

They were almost at the doors when Duncan suddenly veered, steering Natia toward a guard milling about the commons. Natia's resulting panic attack largely stemmed from the thought that Duncan had already changed his mind in the fifty feet since he had recruited her. That would be about right, considering her life so far. She barely had time to brace her muscles in an attempt to flee before they were in front of the guard.

"Stone-met, and honor upon your house," Duncan said, bowing slightly to the guard, who was gazing at the two of them with a slightly dazed expression, as though the mere sight of the two of them together was irreconcilable. He glanced from one to the other several times before apparently deciding to ignore Natia altogether, orienting his gaze so that only Duncan was within his line of sight, though he had to crane his neck to a comical degree to do so.

"Stone-met, Grey Warden. How may I assist you?" The dignity of the guard's response was marred somewhat by the fact that his nose was pointed almost directly at the cavern ceiling.

It was around this time that Natia realized, due to the Duncan's vice-like grip on her shoulder, the only way she was going to escape at this point was to cut the human's hand off. She was deliberating on the best way to accomplish this feat, hands spasming towards the blades on her back, when Duncan's next words stopped her mid-thought.

"We are Grey Wardens seeking to contact another of our order. Are you free to run a message to the Diamond Quarter?"

The guard blinked several times, as though trying to convince himself he had misheard. The silence grew uncomfortably long, the guard's eyes glancing down to Natia several times before he answered.

"Yes, Grey Warden. I will deliver your message for you," the guard said, his voice indicating he would rather do anything else. He had returned to ignoring Natia, his nose once again the highest point on his face.

"Excellent," Duncan responded. "There is a Grey Warden named Marcel currently residing in the Royal Palace. Please tell him that Warden-Commander Duncan has found a recruit, and he is to pack supplies and meet the both of them in the Commons. Should any of the other Wardens inquire, they should remain where they are."

Blinking seemed to be this guard's favored method of communication, as it was an activity he performed several times while formulating a response, still steadfastly keeping Natia out of his field of vision.

"Very well, Grey Warden," was the guard's eventual reply.

"Thank you, honored warrior of Orzammar," Duncan said, bowing slightly as the guard turned to leave. Duncan then ushered Natia toward a small alcove in the commons as the guard trudged past a merchant stacking his wares, wares that had up until recently blocked the path to that side of the Commons.

Standing in the alcove, silence descended on the pair as Duncan and Natia watched the guard hurry past vendor stalls towards the doors to Orzammar's upper reaches. Not knowing how to break the silence, Natia took the time to study the human before her. Though she had met him before in the proving grounds on a dare from Leske, their interaction was not so long that he was vividly remembered. The first thing Natia had noticed, even during their previous meeting, was the size of him. Natia had seen humans before, but always from a distance: visiting dignitaries and the like, individuals whom Orzammar proper wouldn't allow her to get within twenty feet of, at the very least. Natia had no way of knowing if Duncan was typical of humans, but it seemed like he towered over her. His garb seemed an unfamiliar mix of intricately decorated armor and buckled robes, burnished in places with what Natia assumed to be Grey Warden heraldry, and the sword and dagger he wore at his back indicated he was familiar with a fighting style similar to Natia's own. His face appeared haggard, though covered in part by a thick black beard, and his hair was tied back in a loose strand in the back of his head. His eyes were hard and inscrutable. Overall, Natia got the feeling that Duncan not only knew how to fight, as would be expected from a Grey Warden, but that he knew how to survive, a trait that Natia had only seen among other Dusters.

Duncan noticed her gaze, and turned to regard Natia, his eyes as attentive as hers in sizing up strangers. Not that there was a whole lot to size up. Natia was of average height for a female dwarf, coming up to somewhere on Duncan's mid-chest. Her stained and weathered armor was cobbled together out of available materials, like most Duster clothes. Her reddish hair was was cropped short out of necessity, and a dark black brand covered most of the right side of her dirt covered face. The only thing she possessed that would be considered valuable was the mace Duncan had handed her not ten minutes ago, now hanging at her side.

"Is something the matter?" Duncan asked politely, when Natia didn't desist from studying him.

"I thought you were going to turn me in just then," Natia replied, her candor surprising even herself. Honesty was usually not the best policy in Dust Town.

"Wardens cannot afford to be capricious in their recruiting." Duncan answered, his eyes returning to watching the commons. "And Ferelden needs every Grey Warden it can muster right now."

Silence falling once again, Natia was unsure of what to do. The dazed feeling that had been building in her since her recruitment was back full force. More to occupy herself than out of curiosity, Natia reached for the new weapon at her side, and turned to examine it. The mace was a solid bar of grey iron, adorned with what was assumed to be enchanted gold at either end of the handle and the protrusions on the bludgeoning end, due to the fact that the mace had clearly been heavily used yet the gold had not yet worn away. Natia dimly recognized the seal of house Aeducan and a smith house she wasn't familiar with on the pommel. It was the kind of weapon one carried into the places Natia frequented only if the owner wanted their throat slit.

"Thanks for the Mace," Natia said upon concluding her examination. She could probably pawn this for a number of silvers, which officially made it the most expensive item she'd ever owned.

"I'm certain you'll continue its honorable legacy."

"I don't think you realize what it means to be a casteless dwarf."

"I don't think you realize," Duncan responded, turning his eyes upon Natia again. "That you are no longer who you were before. You are a Grey Warden."

Realizing that Duncan's comment could be interpreted as both encouragement and condemnation, Natia was about to respond when movement across the commons caught both Duncan and her eye.

Another human was making his way towards the two of them, deftly stepping out of the way of the smaller beings scurrying around him. He was garbed in unadorned, but still fine leather armor, and a bow as tall as Natia was slung across his back beside a large bag. He was bearded, like Duncan, but his hair was a light blond, and bright, inquisitive eyes gazed from beyond a flattened nose.

"Marcel," Duncan nodded to the man in greeting. "How are things at the palace?"

"Uneventful," Marcel answered, his voice filled with good humor, his cadence and intonation entirely distinct from Duncan's. "The king obsesses over his son's command feast today. The prince in question left for Maker knows where, and the other two princes are also out and about. Oh, and Lords Harrowmont and Dace wish to speak to you." Before he was finished, Marcel turned to peer curiously at Natia, contemplation upon his brow.

"It can't be helped," Duncan replied, his voice sounding tired. He then gestured to Natia. "This is our new recruit, and the unofficial champion of yesterday's tournament, Natia."

"A pleasure to meet you milady," Marcel said with an extravagant bow, one which made Natia wonder if she had missed some obvious social cue, not that she'd had reason to look for such things in her life up to this point.

"I am Marcel Bethune, and I am humbly and inescapably at your service," Marcel continued, seemingly oblivious to Natia's growing discomfort.

"Marcel," Duncan somehow interrupted patiently. "I need you to take Natia and set up a camp near Orzammar's outside entrance."

Marcel glanced away from Natis, confusion evident on his face.

"Are we leaving early?" Marcel asked, his distinct style of speech once again jarring Natia, though she only had Duncan's to compare it to among humans.

"No, but it would be best to get our recruit out of Orzammar sooner rather than later," Duncan answered, glancing around at the passerby Dwarves. The three conversants were still attracting a great deal of attention. "She has some unusual circumstances, and I'd not test the right of conscription against a millennia of Dwarven tradition any more than I have to."

"Certainly Duncan," Marcel said, once again full of good cheer. "I'll take the recruit and we'll camp in the pass. When your message mentioned supplies, I took the liberty of packing tents, foodstock, and ale, so we'll actually have a time of it." Marcel smiled down at Natia. "I can assure you, milady, I pride myself on being good company."

"Stay in the pass today and tomorrow," Duncan continued. "I'll contact you when our business in Orzammar is concluded."

"You'll be shorthanded in the Deep Roads, tomorrow," Marcel said. "Are you sure you wouldn't like us to accompany you?"

"I don't think bringing our new recruit along on the prince's first command is a wise idea, no matter her considerable skill," Duncan replied. "And I need you by her side in case some of the more traditional Dwarves decide to take action. We can't afford to lose any promising recruits, Marcel, especially not now."

Upon hearing Duncan's words, Marcel's face hardened almost imperceptibly.

"I understand. We'll make camp right away."

"Good, I will contact you soon." Duncan then turned to Natia.

"Allow me to once again formally welcome you to the order," Duncan said, bowing to Natia, who came to the stark realization that she might have been bowed to more today than any other day of her life so far, including yesterday when she had impersonated Everd.

"You are one of us now," Duncan continued. "But the Wardens' business in Orzammar is not yet finished, and keeping you in the royal palace with the rest of our brothers will cost us political clout the Wardens' can't afford to spend right now. Follow Marcel and listen to his instructions."

Duncan turned, as if to go.

"If the promise you showed in yesterday's proving is genuine, then I have every confidence you will surpass all obstacles in your path. Consider this the first."

Between waking up in a dungeon, killing her former employer, being rescued/recruited by Duncan, meeting Marcel, and now Duncan's departure, if felt like events were moving too quickly for Natia to get a firm grasp on things. Marcel, however, gave her no such time, distracting Natia from Duncan's retreating form and the questions upon her lips.

"Well, my new Dwarven friend," Marcel exclaimed, his mannerisms lacking both Duncan's subtlety and tact. "Let us be off! In case I failed to mention it before, I am Marcel Bethune from the noble town of Val Gamord, and currently a Warden of the fine nation of Ferelden. Would milady like to introduce herself?"

Marcel's pompous earnestness left Natia feeling conflicted between returning it in kind, or crushing it under her heel. She compromised.

"I am Natia Brosca, from sodding dirt, and currently wondering what is wrong with you."

"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Brosca. As for your latter ruminations, you are not the first even among the Wardens to ponder such things, but in my humble opinion, manners are the pillar of society."

In Natia's opinion, the Sovereign was the real pillar of society, not that she had ever seen one. Manners were what someone used when sucking up or softening the theft of a few bits. She would know, too. Dwarves knew pillars, certainly more than humans did.

"Regardless, we should make haste while there is still daylight," Marcel continued, turning towards the doors to Orzammar's entrance hall. "Though it's hard to tell the time in these caverns, isn't it? I don't suppose your kin even notice, used to it as they are." As Marcel pushed open the doors, Natia was treated to her first glimpse of the fabled Orzammar Hall of Heroes.

All along either side of the hall, between the stone columns, statues larger than Marcel lined the walls: the Paragons, the living ancestors. Casteless were never allowed in here; they would befoul the the Paragon's gaze.

As Marcel and Natia walked down the hall, Natia felt something stirring deep inside herself as she turned her head to meet the statues' eyes, something she hadn't felt since Rica and herself had shared a honeyed nug as children all those years ago. It was said that the ancestors' gaze upon their backs would cause those leaving Orzammar to feel shame, but Natia dimly recognized it as Joy, an emotion very foreign to her. Events had transpired quickly, but those stone behemoths made everything clear. She had woken up today in a cell, been recruited to fight nightmarish monsters, and was about to leave the only home she had ever known, and the joy felt like it would burst out of her, it filled her so.

Sod Orzammar, sod the castes, sod Dust Town, and sod those sodding statues and their sodding judgemental gazes. Her whole life, Natia had been condemned for something she couldn't help, the evidence permanently marring her face. And now, staring at the embodiment of everything Orzammar cherished, Natia realized how willing she was to cast everything aside. What was Orzammar to her except the place where she had struggled to survive for nearly two decades? What were the Paragons to her except long dead examples of a standard she could never reach? With Rica's insistence that she and Mother would be taken care of, the only thing Natia still cared about regarding Orzammar was where the exit was.

With the jumble of emotions that had been stirring in her chest since her recruitment coalescing into purpose, and, dare she think it again, joy, Natia was dumbfounded to notice a skip in her step as she and Marcel approached the final door separating Orzammar from the surface. She considered spitting on the stone monstrosities on either side of her, if only to see the look on the surrounding guards' faces, as they currently mumbled to themselves, staring at the duo and disbelieving their eyes.

As Marcel reached the final door, passing the dumbfounded guards and shoving it open, Natia realized three more things: one, she was richer than she had even been her whole life, thanks to the new weapon at her hip, two, she was part of an order most warrior caste Dwarves would kill to get into, and three, she was truly leaving this sodding city behind forever. When the first ray of sunlight she had ever seen hit Natia's face, she thought she must be the luckiest Duster to ever live.


	2. Chapter 2

“And that down there, Lady Brosca, is Ferelden,” Marcel said, pointing down at a snow covered valley. He and Natia were currently standing on a bridge which crossed a small gulf near the sheer face of the mountains. About a hundred yards behind them, upon a stone pavillion, stood the doors to Orzammar, built into the side of one of said mountains.  


“It’s not much to look at from here,” Marcel continued. “But keep going East and you’ll reach Lake Calenhad, and past that, the Bannorn, Ferelden’s heartland.” As always Marcel’s way of speaking was strange, but not as strange the land Natia found herself in.  


There were large pillars, of wood, for the love of the stone, jutting up from the ground and covered in a spiky green material, which Marcel had gathered, and now held in his arms. Marcel had told her the pillars were trees, and though Natia had heard of such things before, with Dusters who had been topside, such as Leske, describing them to her, she had never imagined they would reach so far to the sky.  


The snow, as Marcel called it, was another intriguing feature of this alien landscape. It covered most everything, blown about by particularly strong cave drafts Marcel had identified as wind. When Natia had asked what snow was exactly, Marcel had told her it was frozen water, from the sky, no less. Obviously, Marcel was either lyrium addled, or he was messing with her, for when Natia had asked how it came to be that frozen water fell from the sky, Marcel had answered that he didn’t know, and that the chantry, which, from what Natia had heard so far, sounded like a human shaperate, claimed the Maker sent it. Asking what “the Maker” was had not clarified matters.  


But by far the most bizarre aspect of this new world was the lack of stone above. Instead there was… nothing. A vast abyss stretched above the ground Natia and Marcel walked on, space beyond space, with no borders or edges to speak of. The void had been blue like some of the noble’s garb when Natia had first seen it, with a circle she had heard other dwarves refer to as the sun traveling across its expanse. The blazing shape was brighter than the smiths’ forges, and acted as the lava did for Orzammar, bringing light to the whole land. Indeed, it was so bright, Natia found she couldn’t bear to look at it for long; her eyes would burn in response. Now, it seemed that circle was going to crash into the mountain behind them, and the sky, a word that had been meaningless for Natia until recently, turned to another of the nobles’ favored tunic colors: red.  


“We should get back to camp,” Marcel said, turning from the view. “It’s going to get dark soon, and I’d rather be by a fire.”  


Marcel had mentioned this before, as they were setting up said camp, that eventually the sun would “go down” and take with it the light.  


They had pitched a tent near a stone dais that sat a small distance from the gates of Orzammar. Walking back to it was an adventure all its own, as Natia gingerly placed her booted feet down and felt the snow compact underneath. When the pair had reached the tent, Marcel set to work, clearing the white powder from the ground in an area nearby the tent. Natia watched, unsure of what exactly he was attempting to do, and if she could help in any way despite that. Once the powder was cleared, Marcel dropped the green brushes he had been holding, and began to build a earthen ring around them. When the ring was about three inches high, Marcel then walked to the tent, rummaging in the bags within, and returned with a small, burnished cylinder that tapered off at one end.  


“Rod of fire, my friend.” Marcel said in response to Natia’s curious look, smiling and pointing the cylinder at the brush, removing a small metal cap-like object from the end as he did so. When the end of the rod got within a few inches of the brush, it immediately started to smoke, a burning smell becoming apparent. Seconds later, a fire had erupted from within the green needles, and Marcel replaced the cap, and turning to stow the rod back in the tent, began searching for something else in the bags piled inside.  


“Are you a mage?” Natia asked in amazement. She had only heard stories of the surfacers who could command magic, which was surely what she had just witnessed.  


“No, I just have accumulated some oddities in my travels,” Marcel called from his place inside the tent flap. “And now, vittles!” Marcel eventually declared, hoisting a sack and what looked like two mats of unusual texture from within the canvas and turning to Natia. “I hope you’re hungry my Dwarven friend. Your first meal as a Warden deserves some festivity.”  


“What are those?” Natia asked, looking at the mats.  


“Wolf pelts,” Marcel responded. “You’ll meet the blighters soon enough. All to common in these parts.”  


Marcel placed the odd mats down a short distance from the fire, gesturing at Natia to sit, or so she assumed. He reached his hand into the sack and proceeded to withdraw and hand to her more food than Natia had ever seen in one sitting: a whole loaf of bread, two slices of cheese, and a fruit, browning in some places, but a fruit nonetheless. The closest thing Natia had seen to a real surface fruit before this was rotting in the Diamond Quarter waste dump, when she had cleaned it for a few coppers. Natia sat on the hairy mat and was already greedily biting into its surprisingly juicy flesh when Marcel muttered something about forgetting the ale, and crawled back in the tent.  


The fruit, Natia didn’t have a name for it beyond that, was… indescribable. The sweetness on her tongue, the mushiness in her mouth… After having eaten lichen bread, mushrooms, and the very occasional nug scrap her whole life, never having the funds for anything else, the fruit was something so astounding, it had to have been created by a Paragon, or whatever they were called up here. As her teeth tore ravenously into the flesh, she found it harder to consume the closer she got the center. Not wanting to slow down, Natia simply rotated the object of her obsession to a section yet unconsumed, gnawing without pause.  


“Careful, Lady Brosca. Eat too fast or too much and you’ll be sick.” Marcel was back, two glass bottles in hand. He handed one to Natia, who took it and promptly set it down beside her, refusing to be distracted until her task was done.  


Eventually however, the fruit refused to yield anymore of its bounty, no matter how Natia arranged her mouth. It had been reduced to a whitish-yellow column with an odd brown, stick-like, protrusion emerging from one side. Natia lowered the fruit from her now moist face.  


“You seemed to enjoy that,” Marcel said pleasantly, sipping from his bottle, his own portions in his lap. Natia ignored him. The bread and cheese demanding her attention. Only when she had consumed everything she had been given, did Natia turn to Marcel.  


“You get to eat like this everyday?”  


Marcel seemed bemused. “And here I thought I provided slim pickings. I was even going to give you a special treat, since it’s your first day. That was the festivity, I mentioned earlier.”  


“There’s more?” Natia was having difficulty believing what she was hearing. She’d already eaten more in one meal than she had on her best day preciously.  


“Yes, my lady,” Marcel said, digging into his bag yet again. “I was saving this for a special occasion, as it’s my last one, but you only join the Wardens once, and something good should come of it. Besides, I think you’ll appreciate it more.” He withdrew a small cloth wrapped package, its design surprisingly fancy, or so Natia assumed. Unwrapping it, he revealed a rather flattened, fragile looking cuisine that appeared similar to bread, in Natia’s opinion, though unlike bread, parts of it flaked off onto its cloth wrapper.  


“Here you are,” Marcel declared cheerfully, handing the bundle to Natia. “An Orlesian viennoiserie, specially for you. I hope you’ll forgive my pride, but Orlais truly possesses the foremost in baked goods. Pity they’re difficult to find out in this differently fine country.”  


Natia took the bundle gingerly. Whatever the bread was, it was layered and bits of it came off like the shedding skin of a Deepstalker. Slightly uneasy, Natia raised the bread to her waiting mouth. It was… sweet. Weirdly crispy as well. On a whole, the sensation was not unpleasant, though in truth, Natia preferred the fruit. Something about Marcel’s eagerly anticipatory face, though, made her want to refrain from stating so, uncharacteristic as that was. It reminded her a bit of when Rica had bought her a nug leg for her “birthday” all those years ago, using money she didn’t have, and Natia hadn’t the heart to tell her it was dried out to the point of being only technically edible.  


“It’s very good,” Natia said, cramming the rest of it in her mouth. She was never one to turn down free food.  


“I’m glad you think so,” Marcel said, his smile growing wider. “I find that Fereldens, for all their numerous virtues, usually don’t appreciate the luxuries of my homeland.”  


“I’m sorry I took your last one, then.”  


“Don’t be. We are fellow Wardens, and I am just happy you found enjoyment in it.”  


The sky, by this point, had indeed begun to darken, as Marcel said it would. The glowing disk of the sun had since disappeared behind the mountains, but it must have still been emitting light, as the side of the sky it had vanished from was still noticeably lighter than its contrasting side.  


Natia made to hand the cloth the viennoiserie had been wrapped in, only for Marcel to shake his head.  


“You have few enough possessions as is, my new friend. Wardens often reuse everything we get our hands on, and I am happy to add to your beginning collection.”  


Natia looked again at the cloth. It was square shaped when unfolded, and portrayed a decorative pattern that seemed to be some kind of crest, though Natia had no knowledge of surface nobility. Still, it was certainly fancy enough to be, with shields and birds, and Natia found in her experience that the fancier the symbol the richer the prick.  


“You a noble, or did you pawn this?” Natia asked, scrunching the cloth up and stowing it in her pocket; one didn’t turn down free stuff. Marcel didn’t seem self-absorbed enough to be a noble, but she supposed human society might be different.  


“Son of a chevalier,” Marcel said, poking the fire with a stick, stirring it around. He hadn’t lost his smile, but it was more subdued now.  


“What’s a chevalier?” The word sounded strange on Natia’s tongue.  


Marcel was silent for a moment.  


“I guess they would be analogous to the upper Warrior caste or lower Noble caste in Dwarven culture. They’re a warrior order from Orlais.”  


“Do they fight darkspawn too?”  


“No, they mainly fight themselves, with the odd exception.” Marcel’s wide grin was back, though he wasn’t looking at Natia.  


“They sound like Orzammar nobles,” Natia said, reaching for the bottle Marcel had given her earlier.  


“From what I gather, the two are remarkably similar.” The good humor was back in Marcel’s voice, without any indication it had left. “Still, I don’t mean to paint a negative picture of Orlais. I assure you, its cities and countryside each have incalculable charms, and its people even more so.”  


Natia wracked her brains for another question to ask, sipping on her ale as she did so. She dimly recognized it as mid tier Dwarven brew. The Wardens must have restocked in Orzammar. Marcel seemed quite at ease, mimicking her movements.  


“So you’re both a chevalier and a Grey Warden? That’s allowed?”  


“I’m not a chevalier, merely the son of one.”  


“Oh.” Natia didn’t really know how to continue, except to ask: “How did you become a Grey Warden then?”  


Marcel glanced at her with a smile, though Natia thought that there might have some strain in it.  


“How should I put it? The city I grew up in, Val Gamord, is beautiful beyond compare, full of laughter, joy, and zest for life. Its ruling Marquise on the other hand is… less so. It was expected that I would follow in my mother’s footsteps and serve her, but I thought it best to depart, and eventually, the situation forced me to. Luckily, Grey Wardens were nearby, and they gave me purpose.”  


“Are there darkspawn in Val Gamord?”  


“Darkspawn near Val Gamord? That’d be a sight. The Marquise would have a fit.” The image seemed to amuse Marcel greatly, and he appeared to hold back snickers. “No, the Wardens were there looking for recruits. That was about a decade ago now, and since then I’ve mostly served here in Ferelden, which has its own charms, as I’m sure you’ll find out.”  


Marcel stretched and stood, waving a hand behind him.  


“I’m going to gather more twigs for our crackling friend here. I’ll be back, momentarily.”  


When Marcel returned, it was indeed with more armfuls of the green needles. Setting them down outside the earthen ring of the fire, Marcel sat back down on his mat, grabbing his bottle of ale, and looking at Natia.  


“My deepest apologies, my dear Lady Brosca. I’ve just realized I spent most of our conversation talking about myself. Uncouthful behavior, for which there is no defense. Tell me of you, if you have no objections.”  


Natia hesitated. Marcel was looking at her as though he would like nothing better than to learn everything about her life up till this point. But even if she felt like talking, how did she relate what Dust Town was like to someone who had never lived there? To someone who had come from the upper echelons of his own society?  


“You ever been to Dust Town?” Natia began, trying to gauge how difficult this was going to be, as well as how much she wanted to divulge.  


“I can’t say I’ve ever had that pleasure, no.”  


“Good. It’s a big heap of nugshit.” Natia took another sip from her ale. “I’m happy to be rid of it.”  


“And how did you come to be rid of it? I’ve only heard rumors of your performance in the proving.”  


“Well, I woke up in a cell today.”  


Marcel and Natia talked long into the night. Natia told him about Dust Town, about Beraht, the carta, and the fixed proving. She mentioned Leske and described some of their better misadventures, but found herself glossing over the type of jobs they typically did for Beraht. She felt Marcel wouldn’t approve, but as to why that bothered her, she couldn’t say. It was a curious sensation, the closest Natia had felt previously being her reluctance to tell Rica when Beraht had ordered her to off someone. Not that Natia mentioned Rica, however, or their mother, but who would want to mention her? Natia learned long ago not to discuss the things you cared about, even to those who seemed to mean well. It always came back to bite you in the ass.  


The stars, as Marcel called them, were entrancing, and Natia gazed at them for a long time, she and Marcel in companionable silence. Eventually, however, Marcel mentioned a need for them to sleep, and motioned to Natia to go toward the tent, claiming he’d take the first watch. Natia complied, but once inside the flaps and among the blankets and sacks, she removed her new mace and her small bag of coppers and stashed them inside a random bag, memorizing its position. Marcel seemed earnest, but Natia had been one of Beraht’s best enforcers precisely because she always expected the con. Everyone was out for themselves until proven otherwise, and not even then, truthfully. A viennoiserie and a fruit weren’t going to change that, though they did make him the second friend Natia had ever had. Natia would treat him like she treated Leske: watching his back and watching her coin purse. Marcel was nice; Natia would be happy to watch his back. Happy to stab him in it too, if it came to that, though as Natia drifted off to sleep, she was surprised with how fervent her hopes were that it never would.

 

They were both looking at him now, his younger brother and his second, as they stood in the heir’s room. The heir who was planning to murder Duran, as it turned out. Sibling quarrels, and all that. What was the measure of a brother? Of a house? Was one deserving of more loyalty than the other? Duran held little love for Trian, and apparently the feeling was mutual. Did that make it the honorable path to kill him? But then, who could claim honor other than the victor? The survivor? What was honor except the assertion of the righteousness of one’s actions, and the lack of evidence to the contrary? These thoughts were ablaze in Duran’s head as he contemplated silently. But a decision had to be made. And eventually, Duran regarded his companions once again and made it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this took a while. Sorry about that. Everything said in the previous chapter note still applies, for those that care. As always, suggestions and critiques are welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> Some final notes should go here, I suppose. If I butchered any Dragon Age lore, please let me know. It has been a while since I played these games. Regarding the timeline, from what I remember, during the dwarf commoner origin, some ambient dialogue indicated that the dwarf noble's origin took place the day after the proving your character infiltrated. In the Dwarf Noble origin, however, a conversation with a proving trainer indicates the dwarf commoner origin took place a week previously, not the day before. With these conflicting accounts, I picked the one I felt would best suit the story. This is going to be a multi-warden fic, though I'm not completely set on classes and genders for each origin. So far we have Natia Brosca, a dwarf commoner rogue and soon, Duran Aeducan, a dwarf noble warrior. The mage origin will likely be male and human, though I'm not heavily invested in such. Overall, regarding origins, I do want two of every race, but again, as to gender and class, I am on the fence for many. If anyone reading has particularly strong feelings about this matter, make them known to me, and I will take them into consideration. Concerning OC's, Marcel and the other wardens that will appear are based on the wardens accompanying Duncan in the dwarf noble origin. You never learn anything about them, only what you can see, so I had to fill in a lot of blanks. I'm curious to see how I did, so let me know, if you feel the urge. Thank you to anyone who read this. I'll try to update soon.


End file.
